


Control

by bendy_quill



Series: Moon and Stars [6]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Light BDSM, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendy_quill/pseuds/bendy_quill
Summary: Because there are things she will not say to him. She will not say that changing the fabric of elven society will be hard because he will learn that first hand. She will not say where she plans to go next because she will not be the reason why he’s put his desires on hold. She will not tell him about the part of her thinking about a life with him in a city she’s only been to once, a place that rejected her as easily as it rejects reality.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow), Tyril Starfury/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Moon and Stars [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722727
Kudos: 20





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Check out more at [bi-outta-cordonia.tumblr.com](https://bi-outta-cordonia.tumblr.com/post/185555021085/fic-masterlist).

The end.

It seems unreal standing in the center of humanity’s empire waiting for the end to come. No sense of fanfare or heroism accompanies the moment—just a sorrowful, abrupt end that will drive these strange souls apart again. Ashala shares a look with each of them—

Imtura, the brave warrior who will return to Flotilla and face her mother once more,

Nia, the illustrious priestess who will remain at Whitetower and complete her ascension into priesthood,

Mal, the wandering adventurer who will keep to his never-ending path…

Tyril slowly glides towards her, fingers gently brushing along hers and stirring that familiar electric spark between them. His eyes are stormy when she meets them and she savors every minute those depths linger on her. Without hearing she knows his next words. Without speaking she accepts his offer easily. She bids the others goodnight and ignores the small glances they level at the retreating forms of their elven party members.

She has a parting gift for him.

They can barely hold off long enough to close and bolt the door. Hands scrape at armor and leathers barring each other from heated skin. It can’t be there anymore, she doesn’t want it there. Buckles tingle and click, plate mail collapses to the ground with a heavy thud, weapons, trinkets, boots—piece by piece they shed it all as a unit and rake hungry mouths over impossibly warm flesh.

Teeth scraping along her collarbone and she sighs.

Her nails slide down the curve of his spine and he shivers.

Where his body starts and hers begins, she doesn’t bother trying to differentiate anymore. It is Tyril, always Tyril, no matter where her hands graze and her lips touch. All she wants is this moment and this memory burned into her mind because tomorrow…

Tomorrow…

His lips cover hers in an instant, stealing the breath from her lungs and filling her with the heady taste of raw power. He pulls her towards lavish silken sheets and she instead pushes him on his back. She reaches forward and grips the headboard, moaning when he rolls his hips and drags his hands down her body to squeeze her ass. Their lips part.

“Ah, shit,” he hisses. Ashala weaves a hand through his hair and pulls, forcing him to look up at her. She knows full well the response they draw from each other. Their power always collides when they get like this. Sparking energy crackles beneath his fingertips and makes her quiver where he caresses her. Scorching heat builds within her and flashes in her eyes. Her gaze quickly flits to his lips and back.

“Tomorrow…I’ll be gone after the ritual ends.” 

The storm in his eyes flickers and his expression falls.

“I suspected,” he responds. His eyes briefly dart away. “It’ll be over come morning and I’m…I don’t want this to end.”

“This?” she asks, nipping along his jaw and sinking her teeth into his neck. She almost purrs, jerking when his body jerks and humming pleasantly at the shout that rips from his throat. “Or did you mean the journey?”

Tyril squirms beneath her for a moment until she looks at him again, noting the somber way he stares at her mixed with the raging heat she’s stirring in him.

“You could…”

She shakes her head. He knows better. They both know better.

“One day…but not after this. Not this soon,” she whispers.

Their foreheads press together and he takes a shuddery breath. His final destination has always been Undermount—she knew this well before the first time she kissed him. Tyril’s disdain for the arrogant nature of his people drove him away the first time but the way he spoke of it…the way his eyes would shine at all the stories he regaled and the way his face would fall when he recounted all the pain that same place brought upon him…

Reforging that society has been his true goal, even if he didn’t always know it. He hates what it stands for but he never stopped loving Undermount and all it taught him. All the pride he carries, he carries because of all that his ancestors bestowed upon him. To abandon it now when he has gone to such lengths to protect it? Walking away from it all when he has always known in his heart that it can be so much better? When he could make it a true home for all of the people?

Gods help her, she would give everything to watch him further bloom into the great man she knows he will become. If only fate would permit them. If only.

Ashala breathes deep, flicks her eyes across his softened face, and kisses him deeply. Fire and lightning—raw power swirls inside them and collides. It’s intoxicating getting lost in the pure feeling they pull from each other and she finds herself asking questions she knows she shouldn’t be asking. How could she leave him like this? How can he stay away from her knowing they get like this with so little effort?

The sheets are cool against her naked back and when she blinks, dark hair fans all around her hips and he trails his fingers along her sensitive thighs. Lips follow after every touch, warm and slick, and she soon recognizes the familiar patterns he traces. He’s been waiting for the moment when he’d figure out just how far the marks on her body go. Tyril lavishes gentle bites across her flesh and she slaps a hand to her mouth to stop the shaky sigh that escapes from her.

“Please, don’t…” he whispers.

Ashala takes a breath—two—three—and glances down at him, melting at the sight of pleading blue eyes and kiss swollen lips. She carefully removes her hand and nods at him. His head shifts and he consumes her.

Every swipe of his tongue,

Every gentle press of his lips,

Every electrified touch that skips and stutters across her skin—

He openly kisses her body, laps at her very essence, and greedily drinks from the cradle of her being. She sinks a fist into his hair, pulling and trembling in his grasp. His name tumbles from her lips and hers is uttered from his like a plea, fervent and so very vulnerable. She spreads her legs wider and then suddenly snaps them shut around his head. She tugs and pulls, carefully positioning him where she needs him to be—taking exactly what she wants.

He weaves his tongue around her pearl, only pulling it into his mouth when she stiffens and cries out his name. Even here there is a way about him like he’s desperate to crawl inside of her and uncover all that makes her tick. Ashala watches him during the moments when her eyes don’t squeeze shut. The way his hands wind all over the parts of her that make her shiver, his quiet moans as her grip on his hair grows tighter, and his gaze shifting up for every spasm of her body—he wants to learn her. Gods, he is dogged in his desire to learn and it almost terrifies her that she truly wants to teach him.

She pushes him away—stares deep into his eyes and takes in everything. His hair pulls tight at the roots where she holds him. A thin sheen of her essence clings to his mouth and chin. A violet hue blooms across his body and stretches all the way down.

“Come here, beloved,” Ashala says, cupping his face with both hands and coaxing him up the bed.

She positions him exactly as she wants—prone in front of her, body fully exposed, and eyes searching for every and any thing she desires of him. He’s always so fond of giving pieces of himself for so little in exchange. Their kiss is searing and desperate, and when they part again she moves.

Further down the length of his body, she memorizes every small piece of him. Small healed cuts pepper his abdomen and some scars lie within the blue expanse. He is tense and shaking where her fingers brush, drawing a small laugh from her. Her tongue laves at his belly and his entire body spasms, low moan spilling from his lips.

“You’ve no intention of making this fair, do you?” he manages between gritted teeth. His hand brushes hers sliding over his hips and she slams it back down on the sheets beside him.

“Keep them right there,” she says, smirking. One hand caresses close to the base of his cock, not quite touching but still pulling her name from his mouth regardless. She dips her head and rolls her tongue along his shaft. A brief touch only and his head sinks back completely into the pillows.

“It’s been…I haven’t done this in…”

She won’t let him finish. No, there’s no need for him to keep going with words when she has so much more to say with lips, tongue, and fingers. Ashala nudges his legs further apart to make room for her body and finds the exact place she wants to be—kneeling yet holding him down, all control falling into her very lap as his cock easily slides into her mouth. Her head tilts and turns, with every new angle is a new way her tongue rolls along the most sensitive parts of him and she revels in his soft cries filling the air. She’ll take whatever she wants and he’ll give everything for her to possess it fully. He doesn’t know any other way to be and it makes her want so much more.

Maybe a pretty ribbon slotted between his lips, a careful knot swallowing all of his moans and screams.

Maybe a leatherwork commission of a special kind; black straps hugging her ass, his bold self on his knees in front of her standing form, and his pretty lips spread around the false phallus secured to the harness attached to her.

Maybe all she needs is her hands around his wrists holding him down, his cock sunk deep inside her and her teeth marks all over his neck and chest.

Ashala tilts her head up and looks at him spread wide with that violet flush covering every inch of his body. His eyes struggle to stay on her and his mouth hangs wide as a chorus of sweet sounds tumble from him. She shifts her grip on him, holds him upright so she can bob her head and rythmically stroke the parts of him her mouth can’t reach.

Every touch draws a new noise from him. His legs continuously tense and flex. Her nails rake down one thigh and she heaves up with him as his hips rise off the bed. He nearly touches the back of her throat but she pushes him back down. Ashala inhales a deep breath and grabs his hips tight. Slowly, she swallows him down, further and further until her lips press at the base.

“Gods, this can’t…! I can’t…!” His entire body trembles beneath her and she pulls back only to repeat the action. She rips the same responses from him that has her reaching down and rolling her swollen pearl between her fingers—his shaky gasps, his hands tearing at the sheets, his blush burning hot, and that sharp crack of his magic finally manifesting in the air. Tyril lifts a hand to her face but recoils in an instant. The glazed over look in his eyes connects with hers and she would devour his entire being if she had more time. “Ashala…oh, please. Please, I need…I can’t hold on…”

She keeps her eyes on his as she takes him completely into her mouth once—he watches and his mouth drops open further.

And then twice—he rakes a shaking hand through his hair and pleads with her again.

She lets him slip from her mouth with an audible sound and crawls slowly up his body.

Straddles him.

Grabs at his wrists and forces them down by his head.

Never once does she look away but, when she does, it is only to watch her own hand as she positions him and carefully slips him inside her body. His fingers dig deep grooves into his palm and they both let out matching groans. She seats herself slowly on his lap, sliding down inch by agonizing inch, and swallows his kisses with a fervor she didn’t know she possessed.

“You feel…” she sighs against his lips and releases his wrists. Ashala pulls his hair, tilting his head back to get another look at him and she can’t help the way her body squeezes around him. Their joint moans nearly break her concentration. “All of this…that’s all of me around you and…all of you inside me. I don’t want you to forget this.”

She watches his throat bob.

“How could I? I would never…not when…not with…”

Ashala lifts her hips slowly, slowly, slowly, until the tip is all that remains. Just as slowly, she sinks back down and ignores his hands scrambling to grab hold of her hips. Again and she presses her palms flat against the bed, lips hovering over his and thin tendrils of smoke pour flow out of her nose, slipping into his as their moans fill the air between them.

Again and again until she finds her rhythm and pins him completely beneath her hips. Trapped exactly as she wants him. Takes from him all that he gives in return. Her head tilts back as he touches the deepest parts of her. His messy kisses travel across her collar, tracing the marks all over her chest and leaves wet trails where he can’t bring himself to part his lips from her skin.

His hands furl and unfurl, nails bite into her flesh as he holds tight to her body but she won’t let him guide her. Even with these hands on her and this power surging from the depths, threatening to spill out of control, all she can think of is the better man that he will become. All she can think about is the hurt man that held her face and tenderly confessed his truth to her. All she can think about is Tyril, the hardened battlemage, and Tyril, the passionate dreamer.

She aches between her legs and leans back so her hardened pearl can rub along the base of his cock. Warmth fills her from head to toe but it’s his energy that sends an errant bolt of magic into a wall, charring the surface unevenly. He has the audacity to look startled despite being buried inside her.

“No, don’t you dare!” She digs her fingers into his hair and forces him to look at her. She can barely manage her next words through throaty moans and desperate gasps. “Only me…focus only on me... On this body…ah, moon and stars, you…”

“I want to see…” He slips his hand between their bodies and he teases her, tearing a sharp gasp from her. “Please, please…oh, Ashala, please let me see you. All of you. I beg of you, please, my…”

He breaks off with a shout as she rolls her hips faster and faster.

Not yet, not yet. There’s plenty of time for it much later, preferably not when their bodies and power collide, a whirlwind of energy scorching and scarring every surface near them. Not when there’s so much to feel and to take from each other, oh gods no. His body shifts and he meets her with carefully timed thrusts, his fingers on her pearl pinching and rolling it between callused fingertips.

“Not…” She can’t recognize the sound of her own voice. Her body starts where his begins or does his begin where hers starts? His scarred body and her stark white, glowing marks. Molten fire behind her eyes and terrifying storm roiling in his. Nails digging into her hips and hers biting into his thighs so she can balance. She struggles around a gasp of air. “Not yet…I’m so…I’m…”

So sensitive. So warm. So quintessentially Tyril, strange man that has captured her heart and who has thrown his down at her feet. One of her hands clutches at his between her legs but it doesn’t stop him from touching her. From coaxing her to the very wonderful end. And finally she shudders, opens her mouth, and throws her head back as her body sinks down completely.

Fire. There is fire both liquid and real coursing through her veins as she trembles uncontrollably. Nails scratch deep across her buttocks and hips. Tyril surges up, burying his face in the crook of her neck and a powerful streak of lightning pierces her, spreads all throughout her in every place where his skin touches hers. His name fills the entire room and smoke jets from her nose and mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she wakes, night grips all of Morella in eerie silence. Pale moonlight casts strange shadows across the floor and walls, stretching and distorting silhouettes into unnatural shapes. The sun dial in the corner slowly ticks and she deliberately keeps her eyes off of it. Seconds turn to minutes and become the hours that shorten her time here even more. Six hours, fifteen minutes, and some handful of seconds later the ritual will begin. Some three hours after that, she will abandon her companions at the gates of Whitetower and head east.

Ashala shifts, pulling the blankets tighter to her chest and eliciting a small laugh from Tyril.

He gently caresses her back, sometimes drawing patterns she recognizes from the grooves on the maps he shows her on occasion and other times tracing the star signs etched into her skin. For a man that held all the charm of a prickly pear when they first met, he clings to her now seemingly unwilling to withhold any of his affection anymore.

She sighs and sinks further into the bed. Small kisses pepper the place between her shoulders. Eventually, he nuzzles the white hairs at the nape of her neck, even with her bonnet mostly obscuring the area.

“Will you go back to Undermount?”

He stops as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“I will,” he answers. She turns over and looks deep into his eyes. What she finds is understanding and disappointment rolled into one. This was inevitable between them—they knew this. Tyril cups her face. “Where will you go?”

“East,” she answers. “My family’s history is buried under the bones of Undermount, this I know. But something in those texts we found indicated…” She shakes her head. “This isn’t what I wanted to say.”

“You’re trying to hide it from me?”

Ashala sighs. “Because you’d want to come with.”

The silence tells her all she needs to know. He did promise to return, to change Undermount and make amends for the blood still soaked on their people’s hands. They can be better than those that came before. They could change into something both of them could be proud of.

But she knows him. She knows this affection between them runs deeper than they should’ve allowed. In all the time it took for him to figure out how to care for her and show his true feelings, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that said emotions would influence him. Perhaps he could return later, he would think. Perhaps home will be there long enough for him to help ferry her safely to the east and then he can come back once her true journey begins. Perhaps he could push to stay with her just a little longer.

Tyril averts his gaze. He’s thought about it.

Ashala reaches up and twists a lock of his hair between her fingers. “This isn’t over yet. We are not done.”

He stares at her for a long while, lips parting and then closing. His thoughts churn but she says nothing while he thinks carefully on his next words.

“Promise me something?” he asks and she tilts her head in response. Tyril opens his mouth but a laugh comes out instead. “No, let me promise you—things will change in Undermount. These political machinations and fickle airs have ruled us far too long. Xenia would’ve destroyed the last of us and we would’ve welcomed it with open arms, salivating at the mouth for a chance at prestige of all things. None of that anymore—I won’t rest until things change.”

She trails her knuckles down the side of his face, tender smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Overachieving man… Undermount is not my home. Have you forgotten so soon?”

“I’d like it to be.” They freeze simultaneously, the words already making their mark and echoing in each other’s heads. Ashala’s eyes widen and her heart beats faster. Tyril’s face softens and his body shifts, looming over her protectively. “You deserve better than that den of snakes but…even still, I want it to be worthy of you one day. I meant it when I said I wanted to show you everything—all our culture, history, magic—everything. I’ll make it worthy, I swear.”

There’s a conflict that stirs within her. One half of it knows that he will not be able to fully achieve that dream within either of their lifetimes. Change is violent and stubborn. Cut off the head of one serpent and another, much worse creature will sprout up and take the fallen’s place. Three hundred years is a long time but in the middle of all that time opposition will work hard to quell any significant change. It’s the nature of power and power struggles—the humes have it and the orcs have a version of their own.

But he could do something.

Maybe he won’t force his elders and their people to change their ways of thinking within the span of three centuries. Some will dig in their heels and viciously retain the power that has kept them thriving throughout a millennia. Defeat would mark Tyril’s very being but his efforts ultimately wouldn’t be wasted. Perhaps a kinder generation will be inspired or a sympathetic elder might preserve the story of his struggles. It will teach the next heir—it will serve as the guide that spins three centuries of work into one thousand, two thousand years of honest change.

“Take this,” she says. Ashala digs beneath her bonnet and slips one of the small leather bands adorning her hair from a single loc. She gathers a thin bundle of his hair and weaves a quick braid. Nothing complex like the way they do in Undermount but just thick enough to hold tight in the band. “I have no heartwarming story about glory or honor for this thing. There is little to my name and I’ve no money to procure something more elaborate.”

He chuckles as she slips his finished braid through the band and secures it. As she pulls back, he captures one of her hands and lightly kisses her knuckles.

“It’s enough that it belongs to you,” he says and she turns away from his soft gaze.

“You’ll give it back when we meet again.”

Because there are things she will not say to him. She will not say that changing the fabric of elven society will be hard because he will learn that first hand. She will not say where she plans to go next because she will not be the reason why he’s put his desires on hold. She will not tell him about the part of her thinking about a life with him in a city she’s only been to once, a place that rejected her as easily as it rejects reality.

Ashala Venralei—Ashala Nightbloom—whichever name she chooses in the end matters little because she will find out more about herself first. Her family secrets will be brought to life, so help her.

But she won’t give up on him—not on this.

Tyril leans down and she feels uncomfortable in the center of his attention.

No, not uncomfortable. Seen.

Impossible to ignore. Front and center. Exposed. Revealed.

They have simultaneously chipped at the walls standing in front of them. Her distrust of others and his separation from the world at large somehow brings them together as much as it seems hellbent to push them apart. How unfair for him to be so sincere with his heart while she stares at parts of the walls inside her that she thought were already torn down.

His lips on hers bring warmth and that telltale buzz of power that tingles beneath her skin. Her hands rake through his hair, brushing past the braid adorned with her leather band, and sink deep enough that her nails scratch at his scalp. He shifts forward, bare body sliding up against hers and she gasps in between the small kisses he plants along her neck.

Little sharp gasps meld into long heady moans and she tears brick after brick from those invisible walls, reminding herself that this is allowed to matter to her too.


End file.
